


A Give and Take Kind Of Life

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Exhibitionism, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, dubious use of a made-up werewolf ritual as an excuse for porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one ever told him about this ritual before he became an alpha's mate.  Luckily, Stiles is a flexible kind of guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Give and Take Kind Of Life

**Author's Note:**

> All right, as promised to everyone who saw me through my struggles with the end of my last fic, here is your reward!porn! It started off as a joke, but swiftly became a reality. Because sometimes you want plot and introspection, and sometimes you just want Stiles getting caught off-guard by how much he likes having the entire pack watch him get fucked. The title, for the record, is from "I Get Off" by Halestorm, because it seemed appropriate.

 

“ _You can still change your mind.” Derek's eyes are focused on him, sharp and unblinking. Stiles feels them against his skin like a physical touch. “We don't have to.”_

 

“ _Look, we've already talked this to death. I've said I'm okay with it; you know I'm not lying. I mean.” He glances over at the bed, where he's arranged the supplies he'll need. “It'll be . . . weird.” He laughs then, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Wow, understatement of the freakin' century there. But I trust you.” His eyes lift, finally meeting Derek's, and something inside of him seems to loosen and relax. “And I trust the others. It's traditional, and everything I've read says it's important to reaffirm pack bonds when the alpha . . . you know. So we're good.”_

 

“ _If you're sure.” Derek steps slowly forward, close enough to slide a hand over Stiles's hip. There's banked excitement in his eyes now, and Stiles can't help but smile._

 

“ _I'm sure.” He leans in, curved lips hovering just shy of meeting Derek's. “How about you?”_

 

_His answer is a low growl and a kiss that he laughs into before he shoves at Derek's shoulders._

 

“ _All right, grabby, back off. I've gotta get ready, so make yourself scarce.” He brushes one last kiss against Derek's lips. “No seeing the mate before the freaky werewolf pack-bonding ritual.”_

 

There are certain things that Stiles has insisted on.

 

They've waited for moonrise, but here in the forest even the full moon is little more than a hint of light through the leaves—bright enough to see by, but not enough for human eyes to make out details. The gleam of blue and yellow eyes in the darkness is unnerving, but not as much as it would've been to see his friends' faces in the loose circle that surrounds them. Everyone else—nearly everyone, anyway—might be able to see in the dark, but Stiles plans to remain blissfully blind. That was his first caveat.

 

The second was the soft, thick blanket that's spread out over the ground, because like hell is he going to do this with leaves and pine needles getting stuck god-knows-where. Once was more than enough for that, thank you very much.

 

Derek moves forward to slip the robe off of his shoulders, and Stiles shivers despite the warmth of the midsummer air. His heart is pounding like a drum. They'll be able to hear it, every bit as clearly as they'll be able to see his naked body; it's a toss-up as to which is making him feel more exposed. Derek's robe is already pooled on the ground at their feet as Stiles lets himself be drawn in by the gentle hand at his waist, gives himself just a moment to hide his face against the curve of Derek's throat. Then he lifts his head, fingers sliding through soft hair as their mouths finally meet. The hand at his waist slips down, splaying possessively over the curve of his ass, tugging him closer as the eyes of the pack rest heavy on Stiles's skin.

 

He lets himself get lost in the kiss, blocking out everything else in favor of kissing Derek long and deep. His previous anxiety about the pressure to perform was apparently unnecessary: Stiles is already getting hard, pressed against Derek from shoulder to thigh and trying to move even closer. Long, clever fingers trail over the cleft of his ass in a gentle tease before spreading him open, just enough to slide a fingertip inside where he's slick and stretched and ready. There's an approving sort of growl from somewhere behind him, and he shudders as his cock jumps at the sound. His leg lifts on pure instinct, wrapping as best it can around Derek's hip to provide better access.

 

To provide a better view.

 

Despite the swollen press of his erection against Stiles's stomach, Derek is careful as he bears them to the ground. His mouth shifts to the column of Stiles's throat, bared in open invitation, and each bruise that's sucked and bitten into the skin there feels intensely deliberate. Stiles wonders vaguely, as his hips rock upwards into the welcome weight of Derek's body, if there's a pattern Derek's working off of, a design he's working into flesh that reads _mate_ and _mine_ and _claimed_. Something old and traditional; something as archaic and deeply necessary as Derek's hands sweeping over him, taking him as his pack looks on.

 

Derek's teeth find his shoulder and Stiles moans, opening his eyes to the fall of moonlight through the leaves. He turns his head to the side and finds yellow eyes watching him, focused and intent, and Stiles snaps his own eyes closed again with a groan even as his hands close around Derek's ass in silent demand.

 

And then Derek's mouth is trailing down, over skin gone prickling hot, and Stiles hadn't been expecting foreplay but he can't find it in himself to argue. Not when the flat of Derek's tongue is dragging over his nipple, chased by the deliberate scrape of teeth that calls forth the choked, broken sound that Stiles knows Derek loves. All around them is the sound of shuffling feet, indrawn breath and high, almost inaudible whines. Derek's tongue traces a path down Stiles's stomach, his body sliding down until his lips can wrap around the leaking head of Stiles's cock, and the cry that tears its way out of Stiles's throat seems to echo in the still night air.

 

The careful, gentle touches up to now haven't prepared him for this. Derek's mouth on him is hot and wicked, messy and a little rough, like he can't wait for the build-up that Stiles was expecting. It's the sort of thing that Stiles is used to when there's no time for finesse—in the cramped confines of Derek's car; in the kitchen before a pack meeting; in the back room at work while they're supposed to be going over the monthly books. It's hard suction and low growls that shiver over his skin, the faint hint of teeth and a single finger pressing deep, deep inside. His mouth falls open over hitching, gasping breaths, fingers curled in the blanket beneath him as his back arches and he spills himself helplessly down Derek's throat.

 

He feels loose, lead-heavy yet oddly weightless, as if Derek's body settling over him again is the only thing keeping him from floating up to snag on the branches of the trees above them. He feels his right leg lifted, draped over one of Derek's shoulders—strong and broad, and damn but Stiles loves those shoulders, wants to claw and bite at them as soon as he gets his strength back—before Derek pushes inside. Loose from his orgasm and from his careful preparation back at home, Stiles's body opens easily for him. Derek's cock feels perfect, warm and hard and thick, filling him in a way he's grown to crave.

 

Stiles manages to find the energy to push back with his hips as Derek starts to move, silently encouraging the deep, rolling thrusts that sizzle pleasantly across his nerve endings. He reaches up to skim a hand along the firm line of a shoulder, down Derek's arm to the hand that's gripping tightly at his hip. Derek groans, leaning back, and Stiles's noise of protest turns to helpless excitement when he realizes that it's left him more exposed, that their friends will be able to clearly see where Derek's cock is moving in and out of him, see Stiles stretched slick and open and eagerly _taking_ it.

 

He'd thought that it would make him feel self-conscious, would make him feel raw and open and vulnerable. Instead he tilts his head back, throat bared to the open air as he watches the eyes that are watching him. They're moving now, prowling around the two of them, shifting for a better view, and Stiles's cock begins to swell again. The knowledge that everyone is seeing, hearing, _smelling_ the two of them, that they know what Derek does to him—what _he_ does to _Derek—_ hits him like a drug, making his head spin with a swift rush of arousal.

 

He doesn't feel weak, doesn't feel vulnerable. He feels sexy and vibrant and alive. He feels _powerful_.

 

It only takes a quick, twisting nudge to get Derek on his back beneath him, eager hands grasping at his hips to tug him into place. It's a position that Derek unabashedly loves—Stiles rising over him, working himself over on Derek's cock, chasing his own pleasure like it's the only thing in the world that matters. Overeager, Derek's cock nudges hard against the delicate skin behind Stiles's balls, and Stiles lets out a high, yelping cry, fingertips digging into Derek's chest before he readjusts, sinking down. It's a deeper penetration this time, and it sends small, sparking shocks radiating out from the base of his spine as he begins to move.

 

His hands peel Derek's away, twining their fingers together; the ease of long practice has Derek's arms bracing, giving Stiles the leverage he needs to rise and fall, to rock his hips with gradually building speed. It doesn't even matter that Stiles is no longer being touched, not with so many glowing gazes on him like half a dozen extra pairs of hands. He can feel them as surely as a physical touch sliding over his skin, tracing the place where his body and Derek's meet. Stiles's nipples are hard, aching; he brings Derek's hands to his chest for a moment, releasing his grip so that Derek's fingers can pinch and twist and tease. It makes his hips stutter to a near-halt as he focuses on pressing into the feeling, one of his own hands tracing the clenched muscles of Derek's stomach while the other wraps loosely around his cock, recovered and half-hard again.

 

There's a growl from beneath him an instant before Derek surges up, hands framing Stiles's face as he kisses him, deep and insistent, sucking on Stiles's tongue until his cock is throbbing in sympathy. Then he's flipping them again, manhandling Stiles until he's on his hands and knees and Derek is shoving inside again, pulling a moan from Stiles's throat with every rough drag and push of his hips. Stiles pushes back just as hard, shamelessly seeking more, trying to get it harder faster deeper _now_.

 

He looks up into a pair of blue eyes, and that's Jackson. Heavy-lidded yellow to his right, too short to be anyone but Erica, and close enough that the two of them must be touching is another pair where Boyd has positioned himself next to his mate. The others are scattered out of the range of Stiles's view, but he can still feel their gazes burning into his skin, urging him to spread his legs wider, to arch his back on a low, lewd moan. He drops his head between his shoulders, struggling for breath as he fucks back into Derek's punishing thrusts. He'll be battered and bruised tomorrow, he knows, and the thought of it only makes him desperate for more.

 

His biceps are aching, trembling with the strain of holding himself up, and he drops to his forearms. His lips feel chapped and swollen, hanging slackly open so close to the blanket that he can feel the moisture from his panting breaths gather on the fabric. Derek lets out a hungry growl and drapes himself over Stiles's back, mouthing at his shoulder blades as he's reduced to rutting into him in short, hard thrusts. One arm circles his waist, so that Derek can finally close a hand around his cock, squeezing and tugging, his grip slick with the precome that's steadily leaking over his fingers. His other arm slides under Stiles's arm; there's the faintest prick of claws as a hand wraps around his shoulder to grip him tight, hauling him back against Derek's body, and Stiles feels undone, split apart and overwhelmed and deliciously, filthily _used_.

 

The base of Derek's cock is beginning to swell, stretching Stiles to the razor-edge of pain when Derek sits back on his heels, hauling them both upright. Stiles lets his head fall back against Derek's shoulder, thrusting down as best he can while Derek fucks up into him. They've only done this once before, and the growing bulk of Derek's knot still sends a prurient thrill up Stiles's spine. It speaks of the need to try to _breed_ him, the instinctive urge to trap his seed inside of Stiles for as long as possible, to prove to the pack unambiguously that the wolf in Derek has chosen his mate. Stretched impossibly tight, it only takes a twist of Derek's wrist and strong teeth biting hard at the curve of his neck for Stiles to come, shuddering and crying, out on full display for everyone to see. He's still trembling with the aftershocks when he feels Derek spill hot and wet inside of him, growling his satisfaction into Stiles's shoulder as he strokes a come-streaked hand across his quaking stomach.

 

They settle slowly back down, lying on their sides and still locked together, with Derek's arms wrapped around him and his face buried in the back of Stiles's neck. Despite the knowledge that it's coming, Stiles still starts at the first hand that brushes against him—a gentle slide over his shoulder accompanied by a low, pleased sound. One by one other hands join in, stroking over his arm, his chest, his hip, fingers sifting through his hair and curling carefully around his thigh. There's the occasional brush of knuckles as the pack touches Derek, too, moving their hands over both of them together.

 

Another blanket settles over them, and there's a soft thump nearby as someone drops the cooler full of food and drinks within easy reach. Then a chorus of sounds that Stiles can't fully make out through his haze of endorphins and exhaustion: insistent female voices that quickly fade into the distance; running feet and eager laughter; Boyd's low, deep howl as he takes off deeper into the forest, and Erica's answer as she gives chase.

 

Stiles leans back against the solid comfort of Derek's body, fingers trailing over his forearm and catching idly in the thick hair there. There's a kiss brushed against the soft skin behind his ear, and Stiles smiles, settling in.

 

Maybe, he thinks as he drifts into a doze, he can talk Derek into making this an anniversary tradition.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr, you can get the inside scoop on ~~ridiculous~~ awesome stuff like this! You can find me there under the handle hungrylikethewolfie. Come, hang out, get teasers, hear me rant about fictional characters, and watch me have mental and emotional breakdowns over unfairly attractive celebrities!


End file.
